Fate Had Elected
by Aramiss
Summary: A writing exercise about a training exercise, says it all really! Yes it's another Savoy story, told mainly from the point of view of Athos and Aramis. This is my first ever fanfic, please be gentle!
1. Chapter 1

_"What's wrong with him?"_

 _"Have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?"_

At Porthos' words, Athos sighed, briefly closing his eyes in silent admonishment. Of course, how could he have been so insensitive. They had known of the Duke's impending arrival for several weeks, and not once had Athos considered the effect it was bound to have on his friend. The events that had occurred five years previously were rarely mentioned. Least of all by the person most affected. Ignoring d'Artaganan's inquiry, he stole another glance at Aramis, the marksman's expression was once again unreadable. At the time of the massacre, Athos had been a little preoccupied with his own demons. He had only just begun to become a functioning citizen of France again, limiting his drinking to that of an evening pursuit and not the all day affair it had become since that faithful day in July. Savoy. He had almost forgotten that it was there, in that minute principality, that he so very nearly lost the boy who would become one of his closest friends. He had lost a brother, he had lost a wife, but cruel as those events were, they had led him to Treville and his fledgling regiment of soldiers. They led him to Aramis and Porthos. Before he could give anymore thought to it, the Duke's carriage rolled noisily into the grounds of the palace.

 **Paris, 1625**

He wasn't there to make friends. He didn't want a family. He had tried that. He would do his duty as a soldier, devote his life in the service of France and the King, but his evenings were his own. He did not want to interact with his fellow musketeers when off duty. He respected their need to socialise, to blow off steam, but he was not a necessary component in that endeavour. Most had given up, allowing him to sit by himself in whatever out of the way tavern took his fancy. Most were either too scared of his temper, or too offended by his aloofness to waste anymore energy. Most, but not all. One young musketeer in particular was beginning to get on his nerves. They were not yet on a first name basis, and Athos hoped this would keep him at arms length, but this handsome and charming young man seemed intent on trying to get past Athos' considerable defences. Athos could not understand why. That smile. That wide grin which revealed perfect white teeth just encouraged the former Comte to scowl all the more. He had no doubt that in every other area of the young musketeers life, that smile worked to his advantage, but Athos resolutely refused to be taken in by it. One evening, after a busy and demanding day, Athos had slinked off to a little known tavern, even further away than usual from the regular musketeer haunts. What he didn't realise however, was that he had been followed. As he settled down with a bottle of a red, in the darkest, quietest corner he could find, approaching footseps forced him to look up. That smile greeted him. On this occasion, however, that smile didn't quite reach the young musketeer's eyes. Understanding soon dawned on the older musketeer; they had both been witness to an execution that day. A beheading, not a hanging, Athos thanked God for small mercies. The criminal deserved it, Athos was in no doubt of that, but he suspected that the young musketeer was not so used to seeing just how cruel the hand of justice could be. Having elected to drink straight from the bottle, he filled the cup that had come with the wine and, in a fit of what he could only describe as madness, offered it to the musketeer. A frown creased the younger man's features, but he pulled out the vacant chair from underneath the table, took a seat and reached for the proffered cup. Athos raised his bottle, in acknowledgment. No words were spoken for several minutes and Athos surprised himself yet again by being the first to break the silence.

"It doesn't get any easier."

The young musketeer looked at him, nodding. He twisted the cup between his fingers, staring into it's depths.

"I've seen people die before." He spoke softly, barely audible over the din of the busy tavern. "I've killed people, but…," he trailed off.

"To see someone killed with no means to defend themselves, unarmed, to simply have their life extinguished at the behest of those who deem their actions to be unjust…"

The younger man nodded, seeming to take comfort in Athos' words, to know that he was not alone in his struggle to reconcile his duties as a musketeer with compassion for his fellow man.

"Athos", the former Comte offered as he refilled the boy's cup.

"Aramis;", the younger musketeer replied.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Perhaps Athos doesn't care about twenty dead musketeers"._

 _"Insulting the man who holds your life in his hands, I see you are a fool as well as a coward"._

For it was an insult, Athos cared more about the lives of the men under his command than he did his own. Marsac was a deserter, he wasn't there when news of the massacre reached the garrison. He did not see just how much Athos had cared about twenty dead musketeers. He would hear him out for Aramis' sake, but he did not trust him. His instincts were right five years ago.

In the days following that night, Aramis largely kept his distance. He suspected that Aramis afforded him space out of respect for the mutual understanding they had shared, perhaps he was even a little embarrassed. Regardless, Athos made a special effort to keep an eye on the boy, for even though he was not that much older himself, recent events had aged him. There existed a strange desire to protect the young musketeer from the kind of world weariness that threatened to sap every ounce of joy out of his own being. He was glad to see the haunted look that had plagued Aramis in the tavern had all but disappeared.

Athos continued to drink as much as his finances and liver would allow, but he didn't feel the need to isolate himself in out of the way taverns, content now to frequent the same haunts popular with the other musketeers. Time was, after all, a great healer, and gradually the darkness that had shrouded him for so long, began to dissipate. He could finally see the camaraderie and brotherhood surrounding him. He still kept himself to himself of course, occasionally sharing a drink with Aramis. When not trying to persuade Athos to socialise, Aramis seemed to favour the company of one musketeer in particular, friendly though he was with everyone, he always looked a little uncomfortable in larger groups. These two musketeers were among the longest serving members, there from day one. Extraverted and verbose, Marsac didn't exactly endear himself to Athos. It was simply the opposing nature of their personalities that irked him. But, as he didn't know the lad very well, he resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt. Aramis had proven himself to be a good judge of character, for the most part, his renewed determination to befriend Athos notwithstanding.

About six weeks after his arrival, there was another new face at the garrison. A rather imposing face, blemished on one side by a scar running from above his left eye, right down his cheek. Athos considered it an everyday struggle hiding his lineage, but hide it he could, for the most part. This newest addition was afforded no such luxury. His heritage was plain to see, and some of the men simply could not get past outward appearances. Aramis, unsurprisingly, was not one of them. He himself was used to the taunts often directed at those of mixed descent. They quickly became friends and Aramis encouraged him to join Marsac and himself whenever they graced a tavern with their presence. Athos was introduced to the recent recruit on one such evening, when the three musketeers had positioned themselves near to the table he was occupying alone. The new musketeer had somehow managed to incite a brawl, the upshot of which saw the burly man crash into Athos' table knocking his bottle of wine to the floor. Athos' only reaction was to avert his eyes from the fire he had been staring at, to the smashed bottle on the floor and then to the wide eyes of the horrified man as he scrambled to extricate himself from the situation. The sound of laughter caught the attention of both men. In unison they turned to seek its source. Aramis was bent at the waist, shoulders shaking as he struggled to compose himself.

"Athos, Porthos", he finally managed, Porthos, Athos".


	3. Chapter 3

_"He'd say anything to save his own skin"._

 _"I agree, there must be some other explanation"._

There had to be. How could Aramis even entertain the idea that Tréville was in some way responsible for the deaths of his own men. While d'Artagnan and Porthos voiced their own defence of the captain, Athos kept his gaze fixed on Aramis. The man was desperate for answers, everything he had come to believe true for the last five years had been thrown into doubt by Marsac's sudden reappearance. All the things he had told himself, all the reassurances given to him by his brothers, everything he had needed to help him deal with the aftermath of the massacre was in danger of being forgotten, questioned, maybe even dismissed. Athos dreaded to think of the effect that would have on his friend, and selfishly, he couldn't fathom having to deal with the possibility that his captain was not the man he thought he was.

* * *

Athos found the captain seated at his desk, he was writing, Athos stood and waited for him to finish. He wasn't sure why he had been summoned, he hoped he had not done anything wrong.

"Athos', Tréville greeted him as he lay down his quill, "thank you for joining me".

"Of course sir. May I ask why it is you wanted to see me?".  
Tréville smiled, appreciating Athos' knack for getting straight to the point.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your new rank of lieutenant".  
If Athos was shocked by this declaration, he didn't show it.

"Thank you sir, but you must be mistaken".

"I assure you I am not, I have just finished signing the order", he said, gesturing to the parchment in front of him.

"While I am indeed grateful, sir, I hardly think it fair that I should receive such an honour after a mere two months of service".

"I beg to differ Athos. You are, for a start a few years older than the rest of my men. You have the life experience necessary for such a role and are the finest swordsman I have ever seen. Add to that your obvious talent for strategy and your ability to keep a cool head. The fact that you are relatively new, may actually work to your advantage'.

"I don't understand sir, surely the men will perform more admirably under someone they know and respect".

"My musketeers do have an excellent rapport. They are, for the most part, good friends. Friendship is all well and good Athos, but there are times when a leader is what's needed more than a friend. You haven't tried to ingratiate yourself, you haven't gone out of your way to make friends, strange though it may sound, this has actually won you their respect".

Athos was not expecting to hear that. As he tried to process what the captain had said, Tréville bowed his head. With the hint of a sigh he looked up at Athos again. There was something in his eyes, a sadness, a resignation of some sort that Athos could not pinpoint.

"They are going to need a leader Athos. Please accept the challenge. I'm going to need a lieutenant I can trust". Athos nodded, he shook Tréville's hand and exited the office. He descended the steps and took a seat a the nearby table. There was much to think about. His solitude was short lived however, as three familiar voices approached, catching his attention.

"A training exercise?" Porthos asked.

"And we're leading it", Aramis said, gesturing to Marsac. Marsac grinned, delighting in the responsibilities bestowed on them. Porthos was not so pleased.

"I'm sorry Porthos, I did try to get you assigned, but this particular exercise is intended for musketeers who have been with the regiment for at least a year. I am sorry my friend. Besides, someone needs to look after him", Aramis gestured to Athos, catching his eye.

'We don't leave until tomorrow, so there's still tonight. Let us rejoice in each other's company, as we will be denied it for three weeks at least". Once again, Aramis caught Athos' eye. The older musketeer nodded his head by way of accepting the implied invitation.

As expected, Athos awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. He had stayed out longer than he had intended, finding an unlikely drinking partner in Porthos, who seemed to be taking his friends imminent departure rather badly. Long after Aramis and Marsac had bid them good night, Athos and Porthos continued to drink. It was the first time that they had spent so long in each other's company without the presence of Aramis, and Athos found himself enjoying the big man's companionship. With considerable effort, he dragged himself from his bed in order to catch Aramis before he left.

The garrison was a hive of activity as twenty-two musketeers were busy readying themselves and their horses for the journey ahead. Porthos appeared to be talking to himself as he leaned against the stable wall, arms folded. Fearing the man may still be inebriated, Athos made to join him when Aramis suddenly appeared in the stable doorway, sleeves rolled up, leading his young, Spanish gelding. Still too far away to be privy to their discussion, Athos judged Aramis' gesture of patting Porthos on the shoulder to be an attempt at easing the obvious worry etched on the taller man's features.

"Good morning, gentleman", he greeted them on his approach. Aramis smiled while Porthos merely scowled, unimpressed that his friend appeared to be suffering no ill effects after the previous nights excesses.

"I told him that you were a bit more seasoned when it comes to drinking, and now I have the misfortune of having to put up with his hangover. It has the undesirable effect of making him even more of a nuisance. He has even taken umbrage with my choice of mount for the trip".

Athos eyed the black horse, who as if understanding that he had now become the subject of their conversation, shook his head and pawed the ground.

"Well 'e his a bit young. 'E's barely been broken in, you'll be lucky to make it there intact after 'e inevitably spooks at a butterfly or somethin' along the way".

"A butterfly", Athos repeated, amused. Porthos merely shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a training exercise Porthos," Aramis reassured, "for both man and beast".


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for all the reviews, follows and favs, they are really encouraging me to continue!**

* * *

 _"Aramis, you were there. You saw the butchered bodies"._

 _"You don't need to remind me"._

He hadn't just seen the bodies, he had lived with them. For three days. Three long days. Three days filled with pain, overwhelming grief, and, at his lowest point, the desire to join them. He saw them still, not every time he closed his eyes, but more times than he would care to admit to. He had learned to deal with what happened. He would never forget it, nor would he want to. It was a part of who he was. The man he had become, the soldier, the medic. His faith in God had helped, but, it was his friends, the ones who didn't leave him, even when he did his best to push them away, that gave him the strength to continue. It was with a heavy heart then, that he would have to seek out the truth about Tréville by himself. Athos' parting words echoed in his mind. He prayed it wouldn't be true, because he honestly didn't know.

 **Savoy, March 1625**

The journey to the border was, for the most part, quite pleasant. Spring was beginning to make its presence felt, though it was still quite cold. With only a few rain showers to contend with, the musketeers arrived at the border in good spirits. Despite Porthos' protestations, Aramis' mount behaved admirably, taking in his stride most of the various obstacles encountered along the way. There was one minor incident on the day before their arrival that resulted in Aramis receiving a concussion, but that was strictly between himself, the horse and twenty-one thoroughly amused musketeers.

Still feeling the effects of this concussion, Aramis spent most of Holy Thursday in prayer, allowing Marsac to take charge of the training exercises. Truth be told, he was enjoying the time to himself. Five days and nights in the company of so many soldiers, didn't allow much time for private reflection.

Upon the musketeers return, they were grateful to find that Aramis had used his free time to prepare food and a roaring fire. Though tired, the men passed the evening with much merriment and good humour. Head drooping, Aramis felt himself being nudged awake by Marsac who had seated himself beside the weary man.

"There's no shame in retiring early you know. You're still not quite yourself after that unfortunate spill yesterday".

After spending such an idyllic day to himself, Aramis wasn't inclined to seek the refuge of sleep just yet, when his charges, who had far more right to be exhausted than he, were still engaged in witty banter. Placing a hand on Marsac's shoulder, Aramis assured him that he could spend at least another hour in the land of the living. When thirty minutes later he again found himself being roused, he acquiesced and settled down for the night, ensuring the rota for keeping watch was clearly understood, though he himself was exempt at Marsac's insistence. Taken aback by just how much a seemingly innocuous fall from his spooked horse had affected him, Aramis mused on the nature of concussions and how he would have to update his medical knowledge. He was asleep before he could finish the thought.

* * *

 _Shivering in the cold night air, Jacques tried to make his watch more comfortable by rummaging through his belongings in search of another cloak. At the moment his quest reached fruition, a blade swiftly sliced his throat open. Unable to utter a sound, he watched in silent horror, his life ebbing away, as the camp was overrun by at least twenty men._

* * *

Aramis' eyes flickered open. Something didn't feel right. A light sleeper at the best of times, it didn't always take something as obvious as a noise to wake him, an ill at ease feeling was often enough. At the sound of footsteps in the snow and blades being drawn, Aramis scrambled for his sword and pistol, shaking Marsac into wakefulness in the process. To their horror, numerous musketeers already lay dead, while others struggled to arm themselves before meeting the same fate. Those that were still standing engaged the intruders in battle. The clash of swords echoed throughout the forest. Aramis quickly found himself one-on-one with an imposing figure. Rage spurred him on and he attacked the bigger man with a determination and strength he didn't know he had, but the larger man was still able to gain the upper hand and Aramis found himself on his knees in the pink snow, his sword dispatched, just out of reach. A shout. Marsac. The leader turned his back. Seeing his chance, Aramis made a desperate grab for the sword, staggering to his feet, swinging it blindly, hoping to make contact. He managed to slice his opponent's back, ripping through leather and eliciting a pained cry. Before he could brace himself for the inevitable retaliation, the sound of a pistol pierced through the din of the fighting. A sudden intense pain on the right side of his head brought him once again to his knees.

* * *

Marsac had dispatched a couple of the raiding party, doing his level best to try and ignore the bodies scattered around. He engaged another, killing him swiftly before spotting Aramis, who appeared to be struggling against a larger opponent. As the sword flew from the young musketeer's hand, Marsac cursed, shouting, anything, to get the brute's attention away from his friend. Succeeding in his aim, Marsac once again found himself in combat, vaguely aware that Aramis was back on his feet. As he thrust the sword into the man's chest, he looked up to see Aramis sink to his knees and keel over. There were still musketeers fighting, but they were outnumbered. Flagging. He was needed on the battlefield. His experience, his skill was needed. But his friend, his friend needed him too. If he was still alive. If… he owed it to him to check. Sprinting to where Aramis lay at the edge of the forest, Marsac found his friend struggling to sit up. Without a second thought for his comrades, his other friends, he helped the wounded man upright, directing him as far into the woods as he could manage. The bullet had grazed the side of the musketeers head and it bled profusely. Marsac ripped material from his shirt in an effort to staunch the flow. He could hear the cries on the battlefield. He had to go back, but he couldn't move. He looked down at his friends pale face as the injured man lost consciousness. He won't forgive you. _If he lives, he won't forgive you. You're place is on the battlefield. Die with your men. Die like a soldier._

* * *

He was cold. Eyes blinked slowly open. Trees. Snow. He shivered. A figure knelt beside him, head bowed. Frozen. Marsac. His friend didn't seem to notice that he was awake. He tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He attempted to sit up, head swimming, pain radiating from the deep gash above his right eyebrow. Marsac turned to face him. Aramis struggled to focus on his features, it was as though Marsac was looking straight through him. 'Marsac', he croaked. Marsac averted his gaze, skyward and sighed. He rose to his feet and staggered away. Aramis attempted to stand, aided by a nearby tree. Marsac ripped the pauldron from his shoulder and cast his sword aside. 'Marsac', Aramis whispered once more as leant against the tree. The musketeer did not hear his plea. He continued to trudge through the snow, not once did he look back. Taking a moment to steady himself, Aramis looked around, surveying what was left of their camp.


	5. Chapter 5

**Apologies for the delay in updating and the short chapter, trying to find the time to write** **this week** **was tough!**

* * *

 _"It's this visit from the Duke of Savoy, isn't it. Stirs up bad memories"._

Indeed it did, and, it would seem, not just for Aramis. As his thoughts turned to Tréville, he realised that he was being watched by the very man. That look, what did it mean? Was it guilt? Was he simply concerned for Aramis' well being, or concerned that maybe he was onto something and that the truth might finally be revealed. It hurt him to even contemplate it, but he would have to search Tréville's office. He deserved to know the truth. Marsac deserved to know the truth. Twenty dead musketeers deserved to know the truth.

* * *

The tree was the only thing keeping him upright. Still reeling from Marsac's departure, he closed his eyes to shield himself from the lifeless stares surrounding him. They were all dead. He should be too. Why had Marsac saved his life only to leave him for dead, alone and wounded? His head hurt. He was cold. Shivering. He let go of the tree and slumped to a seating position at its base. He stayed like that for some time, head bowed. A sound. A soft thudding sound, fought its way through the fog to register somewhere in his mind. He turned his head, eyes struggling to focus. A dark shadow appeared to be coming towards him. It was a horse. His horse. The beast trudged slowly through the snow. Trailing behind was the rope that had once tethered him. On reaching his master, he extended his nose to the stricken man. Aramis could feel the warm breath against his face and reached out instinctively, touching the velvety muzzle.

"You survived", he whispered. The raiding party weren't content in their slaughter of twenty men, they had to butcher their mounts too, though some were spared when they had broken free from their tethers and galloped away, terrified. The presence of another beating heart, the realisation that he was not the only living thing left in these woods, gave Aramis the strength to attempt to rise and see to his men. He grabbed a hold of the horses halter and dragged himself up, leaning against the warm neck for support. He buried his face in the long, silky mane, finding some comfort in the familiar smell of horse. Focusing his attention on this feeling of warmth, the texture of the horses coat and the smell, he could of been anywhere. He imagined he was back at the garrison, in the stables, preparing to head out on a mission. His hand grabbed a fistful of mane, desperate to hang onto the illusion, but the pain in his head and the cold that had penetrated his bones, clawed him back to reality. He soon found himself overwhelmed by the weight of recent events. With his face still buried in the horses neck, he began to weep. The grief for his brothers, the pain of Marsac's desertion and the likelihood that he too would perish, alone, had finally caught up with him.

When the tears subsided, Aramis wiped his eyes and turned his thoughts back to his dead friends. They would have to be taken care of, afforded some dignity. With effort, he pushed himself away from the horse and knelt down beside a nearby body. Eyes open, expression of horror etched on his face, Francois was lying on his front, arms outstretched with one leg at a sickeningly unnatural angle. With his right hand, Aramis gently closed the boys eyes. Rigor mortis had already set in, so it was not possible to arrange him into a more dignified position. He grabbed a blanket, covered the body and prayed. He repeated this ritual twenty times. Exhausted, he made his way back to the area of the camp that had been his own. He found his doublet and several blankets. He was vaguely aware that he had spent a long time exposed to the elements and was in danger of hypothermia. A fact compounded by the way he continued to shiver despite the extra layers.


	6. Chapter 6

**A longer chapter to make up for the last one, we're still in the woods with Aramis. Thank you all so much for all your kind words, and I apologise for the delay (again) in updating!**

* * *

 _He couldn't get the blood off his hands, no matter how hard he tried. Frantically he scrubbed until his skin was raw. No use, as soon as he stopped, it appeared again. Seeping from every pore, flowing down his fingers, pooling at his fingertips, then dripping steadily onto freshly fallen snow. To the soundtrack of clashing swords, he stared in horror at his hands. Someone called his name, he was needed. He reached for his sword but the blood on his hands prevented him from gripping its hilt. He tried again. What good was he without a sword? After several more failed attempts, he screamed in frustration. It cut through the sound of battle. Silence followed. It was over. There were bodies as far as the eye could see. They were all face down. He grabbed one, turning it over and finding himself face-to-face with his own lifeless eyes. He started to laugh then. Relieved. He was dead too. He didn't abandon his brothers, he followed them into battle, into the next life. But when he looked back at the face of the body he still clutched, it was no longer his. It was Francois. Olivier. Benoit. Thibaut. Gaston. Guilluame. Jacques. Matthieu. Their lips moved, but there was no sound. What were they trying to say? Roger. Michel. Isaac. Henri. Étienne. "Formación ejercicio", Edouard whispered. Why was he speaking in Spanish? "¿Por qué?", Christophe croaked. "Traidor", Didier accused. "Eres uno de ellos", Bertrand cried. A traitor? One of them? One of whom? He didn't understand. Arnaud laughed. Émile looked sad, Gustave was angry. Marsac. Marsac died too? He was looking away. Ashamed. Turning suddenly, he looked Aramis straight in the eyes. His expression changed to one of anger. "It's your fault", he snarled. "You are the reason I abandoned my men. You were a liability the moment you fell from your horse. You call yourself a soldier, can't even sit out a few harmless bucks from an exuberant young gelding. A gelding, not even a stallion. How convenient that you should be the only one left alive. Spanish scum. Go. Join your fellow countrymen. You have betrayed France. Betrayed the King. Betrayed us"._

Aramis awoke with a start. His body drenched in a cold sweat. When had he fallen asleep? Flames danced in front of him. He couldn't recall lighting a fire, yet there it was. Remembering his men, he scrambled to his feet, scanning the campsite. They were all still asleep. Relieved, he sat back down, cursing his negligence. He was meant to be keeping watch, ensuring their safety. He could not let them down. He pulled his cloak tighter as he shivered despite the warmth of the fire. Marsac would be back soon. He must have gone to get more wood, or to relieve himself. They would take turns keeping watch. The sound of a raven caught his attention. One had alighted on a nearby tree. The bird looked at Aramis, cocking its head, blinking. With a flap of its wings it descended to the forest floor. With a squawk, it reached for something on the ground. Once the object was secured in its beak, it took off again and sought refuge once more in the trees. Aramis could not make out what the object was as the light of the day was beginning to fade. The first raven was quickly joined by a second, then a third, with more continuing to arrive. The collective sound of their caws reached a crescendo before they all began to swoop from the trees to the forest floor and to the sleeping forms of the musketeers. Aramis stood, confused by their behaviour. Some were perched on top of the men, while others seemed to be burrowing their way under blankets. They would wake them. Aramis ran at the nearest group of birds, forcing them to flee. He waved his hands as he ran at the others and they too made a hasty retreat. They were perched in the trees again, watching him as he watched them. A standoff. It wasn't long before the braver birds descended once more on the sleeping musketeers and Aramis was forced to repeat his earlier actions, but he was beginning to tire and his efforts appeared to be futile. The birds had positioned themselves all around and as soon as he shooed one group away, the group he had turned his back on would return. This scenario repeated itself numerous times, with Aramis quickly using up what little energy he had left. He fell to his knees, swaying. The chatter of the birds echoed through the woods, the fire crackled and there was a faint crunching noise from his grazing horse. He was acutely aware of every one of these sounds before his vision began to swim and he was overcome with dizziness. The injured side of his head hit the snow first but he had already blacked out and so was mercifully spared the pain.

* * *

Luc set out for the border before dawn had even broken. Rémy, his Basset Bleu de Gascogne, bounded ahead, his short legs struggling to cope with the sheer amount of snow covering the ground. He was crazy, he knew that, but he couldn't help himself. He hoped that performing this illicit activity early on Easter Sunday would mean that he would be less likely to be caught. The nobility had enough privileges, if he wanted to hunt some wild fowl, he would. They wouldn't miss a few birds from their precious forest. He needed them to survive, they did not. They had been walking an hour when Rémy, whose nose had been close to the ground the whole way, suddenly raised his head, sniffing the air. Satisfied as to the direction he should take, the hound barked excitedly and bounded away as quickly as conditions would allow, weighed down as he was by his floppy, snow encrusted ears. Luc followed, happy to have located his quarry so soon. They reached a clearing in the forest but what they found there was not what he had been expecting.

At first he thought they were sleeping, covered as they were in blankets, but it quickly became apparent that this was not the case. The forest floor was covered in blood, ravens ambled about, salvaging what they could from the bodies, but, in the absence of scavengers better suited to ripping apart flesh, there wasn't much to satisfy them. Rémy barked again, bounding over to one of the bodies. Upon reaching the man, he sniffed his face, wagging his tail and looking back at his master. Luc was still rooted to the spot, trying to come to terms with what he had just happened upon. The dog barked in an effort to gain his master's attention. Luc looked at the hound, who was vigorously wagging his tail. He began licking the man's face. Was he alive? Luc forced his legs into action and strode towards the body. He put his hand in front of the young man's nose and mouth. He could feel a faint sensation of air. He put his fingers against the man's neck in an effort to confirm his suspicions. The pulse was weak, but it was there. He studied the young man's features, taking note of the pallor of his skin and the lips that were tinged with blue. There was a bloody bandage around his head too. What had happened here? Who were these men? Luc stood and retrieved an item of discarded armour lying on the ground close by. As he held it in his hands he realised that it was a musketeers pauldron. Musketeers? He looked around again at the bodies. These men were musketeers. He looked back at the young man clinging onto life. A thought crossed his mind; it would be easier for him if they were all dead. That way he could walk away from here and pretend that he had never set eyes upon this gruesome scene. Someone else would come across them. The musketeers would send a search party. The responsibility did not need to be his. The man looked as though he was not long for this world anyway. He was unconscious. He could slip away peacefully in his sleep and join his comrades. If he was to raise the alarm, questions would be asked. Why had he been here, how could he just happen to come across this atrocity. They would discover that he was hunting illegally, and not even in France, bad enough as that was. Maybe they would even implicate him in the massacre. No, that wasn't going to happen. He had made up his mind.

* * *

Aramis awoke to a strange, wet sensation that was also warm. There was a familiar smell too, but his addled mind couldn't discern what it was. He opened his eyes and was greeted by a wet nose, pink tongue and brown eyes. A dog? The dog barked, and Aramis was treated to a whiff of dog breath. The hound ceased his affectionate display and sat back allowing Aramis to attempt to sit up. The dog barked again. There was a sound to his right. He turned his head slowly to see what it was. His vision was blurred and he felt dizzy, but he could just about make out the figure of a man and a horse. Marsac? Was he back? Did he get the wood? The man started to walk towards him. It wasn't Marsac. He had never seen this man before. As the man knelt at his side, he smiled, putting a hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"How are you feeling?".

Aramis heard the question, but he couldn't find any words to reply with. Instead he looked at the man, a frown on his face.

"I'm Luc". The man extended his hand but Aramis just stared at it as though the whole concept of a handshake was completely foreign to him. After a few minutes had passed, Aramis attempted to speak. His words were slurred and he struggled to identify himself.

"Amis?", the man asked.

"Ar...a...mi...s". The effort was exhausting. What was wrong with him?

"Are you cold?" Why all the questions. Why wouldn't this man leave him alone.

"Hungry?". He wasn't cold, he had stopped shivering. He was starving, but the last thing he wanted was food, overcome as he was with nausea. The sudden urge to vomit forced him to turn away from his inquisitor, but there was nothing to bring up. The man offered him a waterskin. He took it, drinking greedily. A blanket was draped around his shoulders.

"You stay here. I'm just going to finish tacking the horse so we can get you somewhere warm".

"No, why... there's a fire, not cold... can't leave the others... Marsac isn't back yet".

"We need to get you somewhere warm, it's obvious that you have been exposed to the cold for quite some time. My wife will have a hot stew ready. There's a warm bed and Rémy here'', he nodded towards the dog, "has grown quite fond of you".

"How big is your house?". The man frowned at the question.

"Quite small, it's just me and my wife and Rémy. Why do you ask?".

"How... how will we all fit?". Again the man seemed confused. Was he a little dim?

"I don't understand".

"There... there are twenty two of us". The man frowned again. He lowered his eyes, taking a breath. "Do you remember what happened?".

"I... I'm not sure what you mean?". The man had a concerned look now.

"Something happened here. Something bad. How did you hurt your head?"

It was Aramis' turn to look confused. He put his hand to his head, feeling, as if for the first time, the material of the bandage. The action caused him to hiss in pain.

"I... I don't know", he admitted. A pause. "I did fall from my horse though".

* * *

Luc began to gently unwrap the bandage, careful not to cause anymore pain. The wound was an angry red colour and he suspected that an infection was setting in. It looked more like a graze from a pistol ball, but he supposed it could also have been caused by a fall. It would need to be cleaned properly, but as he didn't have the necessary provisions to do an acceptable job, he applied a clean bandage instead, wincing as his ministrations elicited moans from the young soldier. He sighed, the boy was obviously confused, suffering the effects of exposure and traumatised by what had happened. For now, ignorance might the kindest thing, but eventually he would have to try to make him understand the gravity of the events that had transpired. He was not looking forward to that conversation.


End file.
